Batman: Torn
by BloodyMurder22
Summary: A peaceful Gotham. Crime rampant and present as ever. Though, there seems to be an offset serenity, amongst the sprawling, not sleeping city. "It only ever needs just a little pepple dropped in the cesspool... Boom..." - J
1. C1: A Damn Cold Night

Disclaimer:

All products, places, characters and ideas are all owned by Warner Bros. [All;] of it. I do not seek to profit but expand upon a mythology. Enjoy. I know I will.

 _For Ms. Black_

Chapter One: A Damn Cold Night

It is the Ides of March. A storm is upon Gotham yet to yield rain. Cracks of light and thunder suggest it is just to come. At a large, daunting candle lit window of a mansion, stood a shirtless fellow with formidable form on a corded telephone call. Sweaty and recovering breath from a workout, clutching a towel draped over his shoulders. He spoke softly but with distinction in his voice to the reciever through a mask of black, never to be removed.

"Pardon my French, but are you _fucking_ serious?" A hushed garbled voice replies, the Don sighs. The voice continues, he sighs harder. The voice pauses and utters one more phrase, he groans and slams the phone down. Both hands clasp the towel as he takes shuttering breaths to calm and soothing ones.

The Don claps twice. His overhead chandelier clips on, revealing an inspiring study. The back wall is nothing but shelves of books with a sliding ladder to run along for easy access to all categories. His large desk stood only half a dozen feet away. Paperwork folded and tucked into neat according files, sat cozily on top. A quill and inkwell for taste with four vertical pens for ready use, lay amongst work. A wireless phone at his desk on a modem with buttons for quick, reliable relay.

One last breath out... Don turns to his station and does a quick trot over. He pages his at-home secratary, "Bring Jones in will you? It's urgent."

A swift reply, "Mister Jones is currently in a brawl downstairs--."

Don interrupts, " _Now_." He hangs up the page and sits on lavish, smooth and comfortable rolling seat. He throws the linen on a space of his desk not consumed by paper. He slides deep into his chair and presses his fingers into his temples, if he only could. Eyes closed he waits patiently.

The double doors of his study slam open. _Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._ Four easy steps and the monstorous, scaly giant is at his desk from across the large room. He brings his arms up and falls down to let leash a loud clap on smooth surface. Blowing away all the Don's work in the process. Blood is dripping from the creature's maw, it tounges at its teeth with long, disgusting slippery appendage. Cold, peircing yellow eyes stare hellfully into the Don's calm blue ones, he gulps. Waylon Jones' pupils are slitted into frenzy mode.

"What... _boss_..." the behemoth asks raspily, yet calmly and respectfully.

"You messed up my paperwork. Apologize," the Don demands.

" _I'm_... _sorry_..." the beast groans, growls and hisses. He blinks, eyes are relaxed now, he rises to full heighth and bows his head slightly. Listening.

The Don nods and Waylon stands at full at ease. "Clown boy done himself in real damn good this time. He's in ICU over at Arkham. Hanging on by meer a thread. Full-body cast and--."

"The Hell does this have to do with _me_?!" Jones hisses.

"Don't. _Interrupt_..." the Don raises his finger as he would to a child. Jones is silent. Don continues, "Full-body cast and everything. Docs say he's critical and won't last the night. But this is the Jay Man. So, my moneys on a week."

Waylon montions him on, eager for his task, hoping for a more red night.

"Sorry, old friend. This is a social call. Though, you may need to bring in another strong arm."

"Why that much _muscle_...?" Jones questions, genuinely curious as he swipes his tail back and forth.

"You're gonna be dealin' with HQ with the love of her life near fucking death. Trust me, you may need the hand, friend. I know she has a bit of soft spot for you. It's gonna be all rage and sorrow. She's probably drunk already. Only the Clown kept her off the damn stuff... It won't be pretty and I am hoping you'll be able to bring her down. She's gonna need people. And... she's _vulernable_ ," the Don stares longfully at his most trusted enforcer.

Waylon nods and stomps over to his coatrack, right next to his personal guardian's seat. He grabs the gray trench and fedora, dawns them, and picks up a fresh cigar from the box on his sidetable. He looks blankly back to his boss. Puts the cigar in his teeth, shakes his head and moves out. As he is walking away, he mutters, " _Gonna be a damn cold night_..."


	2. C2: Let the Rains Begin

Chapter 2: Let the Rains Begin

"Pedro," Jones roars into the echoed hallways of Black Mask's Manor. A tall, heavily muscled Latino appears with haste and a belly, that found its way to midsection, when being shadowed out by such a prominent warrior. He dressed in the typical gray mob attire, hat held at his left and his gray mask clipped to a wallet chain on his thigh.

"Sup, boss," Pedro doesn't hesitate for a download. Though, the two words were ladeled with his heavy Mexican accent.

"We got a sensitive case. And... I am gonna need you to drive me..." Jones groans with such disdain, Pedro cannot help but cringe.

"Great," the low tier encforcer chuckles sarcastically, "C'mon, big guy. Ya want me to get ya a paper bag? May get a lil' car sick on the way there," he jokes with practiced ease.

Jones stares coldly into him, "Let's go, shortcake," he pushes out into out the front doors and onto the Manor's courtyard. A fountain circled by gravel road. Doing well to hide his dumb grin, away from fellow strong arm. He climbs into the back of a heavy-duty, lifted black truck. Pedro takes to the driver's, doesn't drop a second to fire up the engine and head for the gates.

"Where we going," Pedro asks when he slaps open the back window.

"North East, Old Gotham," Jones replies, the window slaps shut. His ear drums twitching with sounds of distant concussive blasts...

There is a jewelry store. Store's lights still on to ward off any potential thieves and to shine on sparkling baubles. It explodes into ruination. The air hisses out, concussive fires colliding with rainstorm.

Harley Quinn drunkenly reloads her RPG launcher, silly looking as she stumbles and struggles with the piece, all the while juggling a half empty bottle of whatever liquor store was unfornuate to die first.

Quinn grumbles, hoists up the weapon of destruction and begins to chug with closed eyes. She blindly launches the rocket into a building. It's illuminative source showed her downtrodden and melancholy form.

Hyenas laughing uncontrollably, all the while doing darts and circles around mother. She reloads again, kills the bottle and slaps it to the road that saw her rageful sorrow. Burning ashes, a night owl runs away screaming in fear, flamed vehicles, upturned powerlines desperately trying to spark themselves back into life and a wondering, stumbling one man riot.

"Who da hell?!" Quinn fires a tube at thudding and approaching footsteps. Killer Croc, himself, placed a hand atop his hat and calmy stepped over. The projectile wizzes pass and into a shop, where one could build stuffed animals.

"KC! Oh, mah gorsh! Hic! It's so good to see ya! C'mere, youse!" Quinn flings the gun piece behind her, old comrade saunters quickly over, "Lemme pet ya! I didn't mean to shoot you with a rocket launcher... Doh! Who's a goods boy?!" Quinn questions between fits of sobs and weak chuckles. She is rubbing the giant's smooth cheeks, soothing herself. Bud and Lou bark excitedly, happy to be free of mother's overwhelming stress.

"You missed..." Croc purrs, crouched to her height. Carrying a smile, only present for situation.

"Don't. Youse. Lie. To. Me. That was a deadshot! I saw ya sidestep out da way! Youse can't tricksy me!" Quinns heavy Gothamite accent spills out and she boops him on the snout. Giggling fitfully, she snorts a line of snot back into her nose.

"How are you, doll...?" Croc clutches her side, his practiced eyes into sorrow mode. The break down is immediate. He does not waste a moment, he swoops Quinn up and heads back to the manor.

"Oh, man, chica..." Pedro can't help but comment as they had back to the sleek, black truck...

"I wanna KILL 'em! He's dying... I wanna KILL 'em! He's dying... Oh, please, no... ho, ho," Harley bawls into KC's shoulder, she throws herself back up, "Drink..." she demands, with vicous cold stare into his eyes.

"Eat this," Croc says, passing her a slice of bread. Harley slaps the piece away.

"Drink...!" Quinn enunciates. KC picks up another slice and hands it her way.

"Eat. And I will give you a shot," Harley quickly snaps the slice away, wrapping it up, crushing it into a breadstick and greedily munches away. Gone in moments she shoots up her hand. He puts a cup of water there instead. She drinks hungrily before spewing it into KC's face.

"Blech...!" Quinn groans holding the cup from her as if it were the plague.

"Drink, all of it, and guess what..." Waylon places a finger under the cup as she guides it to her mouth and helps her tilt it all in. Harley breathes a sigh of relief when she is done consuming. She smiles at him.

"Such a sweeite..." Quinn purrs as she pets Bud's head as he rested on her lap. Lou is curled up behind her legs. Jones stands and with quick reach opens the liquor cabinet.

"Poison," Croc states with a slight, disappointing hiss.

"S'okay, sugah. I-I'm o-okay, for now," Harley stutters out, starting to choke back tears, again. Jones takes back to his seat which he pulled closer to the couch, where she and her animals now sat, wallowing.

"Now, how about you get some rest, Moonshine, and we'll actually have that bottle we've been saving in the morning. Fair?" Harley Quinn blinks exhaustingly at the crocodile and immediately flops along the couch.

"Where you be?!" Harley cries out, shooting back up, tears streaming.

"Right, here. On the floor," Jones replies walking across the room to a linen closet, grabbing a body pillow, a large pillow, a quilt and small cloth for his face. He roughly throws the quilt at her, snickering. Pawing his face with small cloth. Quinn catches with grace for a drunk and reaches for the pillow, he underhand tosses it to her this time. She spins and hurls the quilt into the air, then lets it slowly drape over her. Head snuggled against pillow, arms and legs clutching pets and out like a light.

Waylon steps silently over, not even to stir a mouse and turns off the corner lamp, folds his body pillow, then takes to his side on the floor. Eyes lingering on HQ. Waiting...

In a good morning, free of last night's rains and shining glorious light through awning windows. Specks of dust flicked out and about in the sunshine. Guided by Manor's stale winds.

Jones wakes Harley, "You have a visitor." She groans in agony, clutching her forehead and stomach.

"Who..." Quinn sighs, now awake the tears come again.

"Who do you think, love," Red announces, turning to Jones, "I am absolutely livid with you. Why did you bring her _here_ ," she seethed.

"I dont _work_ , for you," Croc snarls back, stomping out of the room and slamming the doors of the study behind him. The air grows cold, only to be quickly broken by the snap of Ivy's fingers and she points to the floor. Whining, Bud and Lou regretfully oblige.

Whimpering herself, the floods welling in Harley's eyes once more she reaches for her favorite poison. Red sits calmly next to her, just to stare. A mix of worry and motherly savagery. She does not embrace her.

"You know, what they give you here, will only make it worse," Ivy states, simply.

The tears cease, "But it feels so, damn, good..." Harley replies, repressed and addictive traits, rising to an ugly surface as Quinn turns to scorn.

"Love..." Red sighs, "Your predilection for toxicity is becoming most cumbersome," she sets her foot down, seeking betterment with harsh reality. A psychological trick picked up from the friend sitting right next to her.

"Leave..." Hyenas let out a cackle and begin their warning growls. Harley stares with a blank intensity. Cold, unrecognized tears streaming down already heavily smeared makeup.

"Love..." Red's face twists to hurt, she reaches for the harlequin. Her hand is recklessly slapped away.

"No..." Harley wipes away the tears and points to the door.

"Harley..." A single, green drop of poison slips out of sparkling emerald eye.

"Leave." Red abides, not a word, not a sound and the door click is the final note.

Jones comes in a moment later, "What--." He is interrupted by the wave of Quinn's hand, "Wanna go have that drink?"

"Sure... I actually wanna have a chitchat with ya, right quick," Harley replies, rising, telling the pups to stay and leaves the study, with escort in tow.

They are in the main kitchen now. Simple, straight forward and touches of lavishness for the sake of the houses style. A square room with cooking wares and stations placed in the center of the area. Jones reaches on top of a shelf above the sink along the wall, next to the dishwasher. A place only he could reach, really, and appears a spherical, corked bottle.

"What do you want to do with this?" Waylon askes, clutching the bottle's bottom with just his long nails.

"Drain it. You don't drink. And I had my fill. 'Sides, makes me softs. And I don't need dat with what I intends to do," Harley replies, casually leaning on the center piece, playing with the butcher's knife on the cutting board.

Jones lets forth a satisfying hiss and clutches the cork with a sharp tooth, with a yank, it is open. He spits the cork into the nearby trashcan with a _thock_. Tilts the bottle over into center sink and with a few _thwoops_ it is empty, then hucked into the trash, along with stopper.

"Tell me..." Croc's tail lets out a curious swipe, "Why did ya turn away the plant lady?"

Harley smiles. Her intentions clear, "I need rescources. While, Red is good at gathering the sames things you are, she is just not fast enough. I need names. Places. Faces. And I wanna start loud..." she lets forth a dark giggle and chokes back any remaining tears.

"Perhaps, we do this a lil' more subtely," Croc hushes back, a nervous twitch in his tail.

"Why so," Quinn growls, viciously.

"'Cause the Bat was a firsthand witness..."


End file.
